Love's Logic
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Sequel to "Every Time." Sherlock has finally begun to appreciate that there's more to Molly than he originally thought, but can he overcome his endearing, obnoxious ways to commence on the irrational yet strangely attractive road to...love? Is there logic to be found there? Lots of Sherlolly, of course-with John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Toby the Cat. (*All rights go to owners*)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Here it is, guys! I know, I've been promising a sequel for some time-but here, finally, is the first chapter. It should have about eight-not terribly long, but definitely a bit more developed than ****_Every Time._**** I fervently hope that you all enjoy it! Suggestions are always very welcome, as are reviews! ;)**

Molly didn't remember the walk home very well. It was a confusing mixture of the golden blur of streetlights, the whir and rush of traffic, the tramp of her own footsteps, and the beating of her own heart.

_"Have I hurt you?"_

_"Always."_

Numbly, she pushed open the door of her apartment building.

_Creak, creak, creak._

She wondered if the landlord would _ever_ take the time to fix those horrid stairs.

Then she felt sorry for thinking such an ungrateful thing. _Poor man—he's struggling to get by, what with five kids. I shouldn't be so impatient with him. I'll bake him a batch of cookies, just to show how much I appreciate what he does to keep the building nice and tidy._

Toby was waiting for her when she got home. His topaz eyes blinked placidly at her, as though he didn't know—or care—that the world had been flipped upside down and mysteriously restored to equilibrium in the space of thirty minutes.

"Toby." Her thoughts of her landlord had temporarily displaced the subject that was presently weighing on her mind…but she could keep them out for long.

"Toby," she said again, tickling him under his fluffy white chin, "He almost apologized." She waved the bag of samples, and noticed that her hand was still trembling. "And I got these back."

Toby's eyes bored into her, but whether he was bored or intrigued was difficult to discern.

Molly took his purring as an encouragement to continue. "He told me that all this time, he didn't know that he'd been hurting me. He just didn't know. Or at least that's what he said. You know, he's Sherlock Holmes—he's supposed to be able to observe anything and everything. But maybe…maybe he just _didn't_. Didn't see, I guess. Or didn't know how to see." She put down the DNA samples and, without bothering to take off her coat, curled up on sofa besides her roommate, who moved his tail considerately out of her way. "He didn't apologize. Not really. But because it was him, he didn't need to. I knew what he meant." She paused, chewing her lip nervously. "I think."

Molly noticed how quiet the apartment was. Perhaps she'd better put on a pot of tea, so that the companionable hissing of boiling water might alleviate the silence. Perhaps she'd better call someone.

_But who?_

Hunching forward and wrapping her arms around her knees, she rattled through the list of people-she-could-call in her mind.

The list was depressingly short.

_Let's see…there's Marcie…Elizabeth…but no, they're busy, I'm sure. Marcie just had another baby, and Elizabeth's on vacation._

No, the only two friends she kept in touch with from college were out of the question.

_Gillian?_

The very thought of her sophisticated, beautiful, talented older sister made her wince. Calling Gillian, who was on her third husband, asking for advice about _love?_ Hardly. For all her 'experience,' Molly was pretty sure that love had never been part of Gillian's life.

_"Romance, Molls? You're so old-fashioned!"_

Gillian thought love was silly.

_Oddly enough, she'd probably get on with Sherlock about that._

Molly pushed all such thoughts away, feeling depressed. There weren't any other girlfriends to call, and she didn't really know anyone else. DI Lestrade? She blushed. That was ridiculous.

She sighed again, feeling a bit warm in her coat but not feeling as though she had enough energy to take it off and hang it up. "Guess it's just you, Toby. You've got to listen a _little_ longer. Sherlock acted like he…um, saw me, for once. I've got to tell _somebody_."

And with the inscrutable forbearance known only to felines, Toby listened for many hours.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Alright, my dear readers, I'm so very sorry that I haven't updated this in MONTHS—terrible, I know! I've been quite busy with school, but more than that the fanfic bug hasn't bitten me in a while. I'm finishing up a break at the moment, and I thought that I'd try to get back into my stories a bit! Can't promise when the next update will be, but I hope that you enjoy this one…and ****_please_**** J let me know! I just love hearing your feedback!**

**This chapter was both fun and challenging to write. I love getting in Sherlock's head, but staying in canon while exploring new…shall we say, rooms in the Mind Palace is tricky. Please let me know if you've any suggestions for how I could improve this chapter, or what you'd like to see in the rest of the fic! I've got it planned out till the end, but am very willing to add in something here or there to make you guys happy!**

**Enjoy, favorite, follow and review! J (A tall order, I know!)**

When he walked up the stairs, his footsteps were heavy.

Observant as he was, he did not recall filing a mental note on the weight of his footsteps ever before.

On the whole, the evening had presented too many conundrums. He paused before the door of the flat, filled with abhorrence at the idea of _too_ many conundrums, a superfluity of problems that…

He did not understand?

_Don't be an idiot. Or at least, don't be any more of an idiot than you have already been. _

He tried to clear his mind, to reorder the strangely chaotic Mind Palace, but one thought—one word, spoken in a voice that had managed to be sad yet sweet, was disrupting all the cold, hard, angular precision and neatness.

_"Always."_

Always…he had hurt her always? And she had not told him of this?

_"You never asked."_

Of course he hadn't asked. His momentary confusion was instantly cast aside. What possible motivation could there have been for inquiry? He didn't want to know how Molly Hooper was feeling. Feelings were inconsequential, and more than that—feelings were _boring_. Had he, Sherlock Holmes, stooped to the level of the moronic masses?

His usually firm, set lips twisted in disgust as he paused at the door of the flat. It was imperative that he compose himself before he faced Mrs. Hudson and John, whose average brain was surprisingly (but was it surprising, really?) and even disturbingly perceptive at certain times about certain matters. Moreover, John had witnessed the entire…exchange between him and Molly, and doubtless had traded several significant glances with Mrs. Hudson, whose intrusion had been most—unfortunate.

Sherlock had always loathed significant glances. It was true, they did not portend anything more than misconstrued suppositions on the part of lesser minds, but the smugness with which they were communicated grated on his nerves. The idiots _didn't_ know anything, but they _thought_ that they did—it was infuriating!

_Calm down. As mentally aforementioned, you've played the idiot more than enough this evening._ Assuming a frigid demeanor and hoping that his eyes and cheekbones would contribute to the intended, intimidating effect, he turned the handle sharply and entered the room.

John was reading the _London Times_ with an air that was just slightly too calm and collected. Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be seen, for which Sherlock was glad. He was certain that another well-meant "tsk, tsk" would drive him to a life of violent crime.

The samples were missing, of course, but other than that the room (which appeared cluttered to all but his unique eye) was identical to what it had been half an hour earlier, before…whatever happened had happened.

Sherlock was still not quite sure _what_ had happened, and the knowledge of his own ignorance displeased him.

Setting his shoulders stiffly, he turned his mind to heating a cup of tea over his Bunsen burner and pretended that he did notice that John had stopped reading the newspaper.

John would not remain unnoticed, however. "D'you want to talk about it?" He sounded patient…and parental.

It was aggravating. "Talk about what?"

"Sherlock…"

The Bunsen burner flickered to light, an isosceles triangle of golden-tipped blue flame. "Frankly, John, I'm bemused."

"No you're not. If you were, you wouldn't admit it." His flatmate—with whom he was too annoyed at the moment to call friend—surveyed him over the flopping edge of a newspaper. "I think we should talk about what just happened with Molly."

"I don't want to." Sherlock had meant the retort to sound disinterested and detached, but it came off rather embarrassingly petulant and almost—childish.

John shook his head, with that firm, "Army Captain" expression that always meant he was about lay down the law as best he could.

Sherlock disliked the law, and the laying down of it still more. He sipped his tea, which thanks to his expert ministrations was evenly heated. "What possible benefit could be attained by the discussion of the mundane events of Miss Hooper's intrusion?"

"Stop talking all smart-like to cover up the fact that you're bloody well embarrassed," exclaimed John. Exasperation had gotten the better of self-imposed complacency.

"I'm never embarrassed."

"Yes, you are." John emphasized each word with a stab of his finger into the unsuspecting air.

"John, if you're going to force this discussion, have the decency not to establish my behavior through the use of emotional terms that degrade me to your level."

John sighed. "Alright, fine. But Sherlock, we have to talk about this."

"Why?"

"Because I'm your friend, and Molly's friend."

"You're her friend? When did that happen?"

"Maybe when you were being a bastard to her every other day. She's a person, Sherlock."

Something about the words made a tiny crack in the steely exterior of…his heart? He wasn't sure. This conversation was rapidly becoming very like the one in which John had lectured him about stealing the DNA samples but—he hadn't cared, then.

Did he now?

He realized that he hadn't turned off the Bunsen burner, and so he did, hoping that even so simple an occupation as that would do something to distract him from the strange, inexplicable ache that suddenly seemed to pervade his whole being.

He decided to act as though he hadn't heard John's comment, but then he heard his own voice say, not quite so steadily as usual, "I know."

John put the newspaper down. When he spoke next, his tone had softened considerably. "Sherlock, you don't have to shut her out, just because…" he didn't finish, and he didn't have to. Sherlock knew what he was about to say—_'just because she cares about you, and you don't know what to do about it.'_

And he didn't. He, Sherlock Holmes, didn't know what to do.

_Love isn't a mystery to me. It's chemistry, biology, science, and weakness. There's nothing complex about it. There's nothing interesting about it, except to what lengths deluded people will go to find it…but it's not something I need…_

He saw again, in his mind's eye, the way Molly had looked at him. In her eyes he had seen how long she had loved him…had loved him without expecting or even hoping that he would ever notice her with more than scorn.

When he had realized the depths of her—affections, had it thrilled him? Had it stirred him? Under the kindly scrutiny of John Watson, a simpler man with an average mind who understood love far better than Sherlock could (but there was nothing to understand, was there?), he would not allow his strangely un-methodical thought patterns to show plainly on his face (which ought to be impassive, certainly). He turned away, drinking his tea.

He heard John exhale. "Well, I've had my say. I'll leave you to your—musings, whatever."

He was grateful for that, though he could not bring himself to say so. But something had to be cleared up. "You're not an idiot, John."

"About jolly well time you admitted it," John said, with a chuckle that showed he wasn't really annoyed. "But—why?"

Sherlock couldn't quite explain what had prompted that declaration, not even to himself. But the realization that John was not an idiot, that he was not just an average mind, that average minds might not even exist, and that—Molly wasn't one either…it was all tied together somehow, in a web of connection that was enigmatic and clouded to his usually trenchant deductive process. He knew that he cared about John, that they were friends—the type of connection that he had heretofore abhorred. Mrs. Hudson, aggravating as she sometimes could be, was a friend too—so was Lestrade. There weren't any others, really, save for the skull, but now Molly Hooper was entering that exclusive circle in a strange way.

But was she a friend?

_Well, would you be sorry if she died?_

He was about to tell himself no, drain his tea, backtrack into an emotional no-man's-land were there was no such thing as heartache and nothing could ever hurt or confuse him. But there was something about Molly that played through his memory—something about her eyes, her voice, how resigned she was to the fact that nobody talked to her—all of this caused some strange _feeling—_yes, a feeling—within him.

Molly Hooper moved him…stirred him.

There, he had thought it.

He could not go back.

**A/N: Now go review it! Haha!**


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